TV’s on. Some voice narrates deep-sea horrors, creatures with translucent skin and rows of teeth meant to tear through silence. It’s white noise. Background hum to an emotional tornado I’ve dressed up as relaxation.
Earlier today, I attempted to plot my comeback from the Rorie Adams storm, in which she stole the room, and made off with my deal like it was her divine right. And looked damn good doing it too.
What’s worse than losing Asher’s attention?
Wanting her.
And wanting to undo that zipper on her fire-breathing confidence and see what’s underneath.
So, to distract myself from the truth throbbing between my legs, I scroll. Mindless, numbing.
Until karma shows up in the form of Chloe and Jackson, filtered to perfection. Her smile is syrupy, head tipped into his chest. His hand stakes a claim low on her back, thumb resting just shy of skin. Golden hour renders their betrayal beautiful. Marketable.
The caption reads:Sunshine & Jax: unstoppable together.
I grit my teeth.
Forgot to block her. Rookie move.
I tap through her stories, not because I care. Because I’m human. Because curiosity’s a parasite and I’m the willing host.
Last night—a bar. She’s laughing into her glass. Jackson watches her like he’s discovered gravity and decided to orbit.
Guess I know where he disappeared to after I threw him out of Asher’s penthouse.
Figures. Chloe never did like loose ends. She just cuts them.
She looks happy. Not the brittle, fake kind. Actual joy. That part cuts deeper than the cheating ever did. It’s not that I want her back. It’s the illusion. The version of Chloe I built in my head. The one who never existed outside of my hopes.
I toss my phone onto the cushion, stare at the ceiling like it might offer a new perspective.
This apartment is too still. The silence here creeps in through the cracks. Dismantles. Unpacks. Reminds me I was stupid enough to love someone who never actually saw me.
I don’t miss Chloe.
I miss believing she did.
I press a palm to my face, exhaling slow, then shut off the TV.
See, guys don’t melt down to sad indie soundtracks and tubs of ice cream.
We bench press it.
Bury it under bourbon.
Fuck it away.
Or we distract ourselves so hard it nearly becomes religion.
That’s the male strategy. Sort it into categories, label the pain, file it, and stack it behind our pride.
Me? I’ve tried them all.
Yes, I’m counting Rorie Adams. I’ve mentally fucked her more times than I can count in the last few days.
I don’t want to want her.
But I do.
